by James Craig
Desperate for a cigarette, Hilary Waxman paced a corridor deep inside the Foreign and Commonwealth Office on King Charles Street, just off Whitehall. The Israeli Ambassador hated this fey Italianate building. Previously the home of the India Office and the Colonial Office, a seventeen-year, £100 million renovation had done little to drag the place into the twenty-first century. The edifice simply had no character and, like the organization it housed, it had no balls.
It was almost 11 a.m., and Waxman had been summoned to see the Foreign Secretary at ten-thirty in order to ‘share information’ on the spate of killings that had rocked genteel British sensitivities. It was unusual for her to be kept waiting like this. Whatever else you could say about the British, they were usually punctual.
Waxman checked her watch for the sixth time in two minutes and cursed under her breath. She glared at the young staffer hovering at her elbow. ‘Go and find out what’s going on,’ she hissed.
As the young woman jogged off down the corridor, the Ambassador now at least felt the minor solace of being alone. With her mobile and her BlackBerry switched off inside her bag, she could enjoy the rare pleasure of being almost incommunicado. After all the shit she had been receiving from Jerusalem over the last few days, that was, Waxman decided, the very least she deserved.
The prospect of another dressing-down from the British Government did not bother her in the least. It was, in the famous words of some long-forgotten English politician, like being savaged by a dead sheep. Waxman, who was considered a bit of a liberal back home, knew that she had bigger balls than all of them here put together.
In fact, there wasn’t a single British politician that Waxman didn’t feel she could have for breakfast. The Foreign Secretary himself was a particularly ineffectual young man, promoted too far, too fast, by a weak Prime Minister. Waxman herself wouldn’t have given him a job as a junior ADC on her staff.
After growing up on a kibbutz on the West Bank, then ten years in the army and almost another ten in the snake-pit of Israeli politics, Waxman at first had found London a real shock to the system. Britain was obviously the most complacent country on earth and the British political classes appeared truly spineless. As far as she could see, all they ever did was cheat on their expenses and wail about their ‘broken’ society. Meantime, the place had become a haven for criminals and terrorists. God knows, if they were better able to keep their own house in order, there wouldn’t be any need to send Mossad in to do their dirty work for them.
On the other hand, Mossad wasn’t exactly covering itself in glory either. Six deaths, three of them ‘collaterals’, i.e. innocent bystanders, was the kind of thing you could get away with in Beirut, but not here. What really annoyed the Ambassador was that she had demanded that the mission be abandoned after the débâcle at the Ritz Hotel. Overruled by her military attaché, she now had to face the uncomfortable truth that she was stuck in the middle of an increasingly acrimonious dispute between London and Jerusalem, with her only role in this tawdry little drama to take a kicking from both sides.
Worst of all, while the mission had yet to be completed, the lead Mossad operative had gone missing. Three of the four Hamas targets had been taken out, but they had meanwhile lost a man of their own.
Losing a man was one thing but, at the very least, you needed a body. Or, at the very, very least, some body parts. Something to take back to his family.
They had nothing.
Ryan Goya had executed his orders and taken out his target. Then he had just disappeared off the face of the planet. Jerusalem was going crazy. They were talking about sending in another assassination squad to try and rescue him. But, as Waxman had pointed out, no one knew if Goya – or his corpse – was even still in London.
It was just the biggest mess imaginable.
The Ambassador checked her watch again: it was now five past eleven. What could the Foreign Secretary be doing that was so bloody important that she had to stand about in a corridor for all this time? The little bastard was punishing her. It was so childish. How dare the little shit treat her like this?
How dare he?
Six minutes past eleven.
The staffer had completely disappeared.
Waxman paced the length of the corridor. She had half a mind just to walk out. In fact, she had more than half a mind to walk out, and then issue her immediate resignation. Maybe now was the time to take up the directorship she had been offered by a company that specialized in security software, utilizing technology developed by the Israeli army.
Rummaging in her bag, she pulled out her BlackBerry. A few quick keystrokes and she could put all this shit behind her. A quick email to Jerusalem announcing that she was resigning would do the trick. Or, even better, just a quick line to the London correspondent of Jerusalem Newswire. The news would be out in minutes. It would give the Foreign Affairs Ministry a hell of a shock.
The more Waxman thought about it, the wider her smile grew. Why wait minutes? She could just send a Tweet. Being au fait with all the craziness of the internet, she could have the news all the way around the world and back again before Jerusalem even knew what was going on. Her youngest son had set her up with a Twitter account a few months ago. After getting her PA to post a few bland observations, Waxman was amazed to find that she had almost 1,000 followers, including the London bureau chiefs of the Israeli newspapers Haaretz and the Jerusalem Post. Maybe she could be the first-ever diplomat to resign via Twitter. God knows, it was maybe the only way she could ever hope to make it into the history books.
She was interrupted in her reverie by a pallid figure ghosting down the corridor towards her. As he approached, Waxman noticed the unpleasant grin on the man’s face.
The flunky stopped about five feet from the Ambassador. ‘The Secretary of State will see you now,’ he said solemnly.
Even at that distance, his foul breath made her want to breathe through her mouth. She struggled to keep a look of disgust off her face.
‘Follow me.’ Oblivious to her discomfort, the man then turned and walked back the way he had come.
TWENTY-FIVE
With her portfolio under her arm, Emma Trimingham came out of the model agency, glanced up and down the street, and then headed off in the direction of the tube.
‘About fucking time,’ Sam Hooper said to himself, tossing his empty coffee cup into the gutter and starting after her. Half a dozen underground stops and twenty minutes later, he watched her skip up the steps of a warehouse building near Tower Hill. Strolling into the reception, he flashed his ID at the security guard and then scanned the company names listed on a board behind his head. Buzz Photography Services was on the third floor. He opted for the stairs and was more than a little out of breath by the time he got there.
Going through a set of double doors, Hooper found himself in a large open-plan space with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, overlooking the street. At the far end, a young bloke was setting up an expensive-looking camera in front of what looked like a life-size model of an Aberdeen Angus cow. Only as he moved closer, did Hooper realize it was a bucking bronco machine.
‘Cowboy theme today, is it?’
The photographer’s assistant turned to face Hooper. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. Unshaven and bleary-eyed, he looked like he hadn’t slept lately. With a sigh, Hooper got out his ID again. Any shit from you, he thought, and we can always go for the full-cavity body search.
‘Is that genuine?’
Hooper threw it at the kid’s head, missing by maybe six inches. ‘Of course it’s fucking genuine.’
After wiping his hands on his New Order T-shirt, the kid slowly bent down and picked up Hooper’s warrant card. After careful inspection, he stepped over and handed it back. ‘We’re shooting an advert for tampons,’ he announced matter-of-factly. ‘ “Don’t let your time of the month stop you from riding a bull” type of thing.’
‘Outstanding,’ observed Hooper sarcastically, stuffing the warrant card into the back pocket of
his jeans.
The kid scratched his head vigorously.
I wonder if he’s got head lice, Hooper wondered idly.
‘Yeah,’ the kid yawned, ‘the photographer’s Paul Urbandale.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Hooper nodded. He didn’t have a fucking clue who the boy was talking about.
The other registered Hooper’s blank expression. ‘He’s famous for his war photographs in Iraq and Afghanistan.’
‘Okay.’
‘He did that one of the little girl with her legs blown off.’
‘Lovely.’
‘Such beautiful composition,’ the kid added wistfully.
‘And now he’s doing tampon adverts?’
‘Yeah,’ the kid shrugged.
‘Where’s the girl?’
The kid nodded towards another door in the far corner of the room. ‘She’s getting changed. Up the stairs, first door on the right.’
‘Thanks,’ said Hooper, already heading for the door indicated.
‘Tell her that we’re due to start in fifteen minutes.’
‘No problem,’ Hooper smiled. ‘I’ll be done with her by then.’
Sitting in her dressing room smoking a cigarette, wearing jeans with a check flannel shirt, Emma Trimingham looked pretty but nothing special. Fresh-faced, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, he would have put her age at about thirteen or fourteen. On a table behind her, a large cowboy hat sat next to a make-up bag and an open packet of Royals.
‘Who are you?’ She frowned, blowing a stream of smoke towards his head.
‘I’m Inspector Sam Hooper,’ he said, leaning against the doorframe.
‘A copper?’
‘Yes.’
Shrugging, she took another drag on her cigarette.
‘Want to see some ID?’ he asked.
‘Why would you lie?’ The girl gestured to the Royals. ‘Want a cig?’
Hooper shook his head. ‘Nah, not my kind of thing.’
‘So,’ she smiled coquettishly, ‘what do you want?’
‘I want to talk to you about your friend, Charlotte Gondomar.’
The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. ‘God! What a nightmare. What’s to say?’ She lifted the make-up bag from the desk and pulled out an eyebrow pencil and a mirror. ‘That girl always was highly strung.’
Hooper watched her begin to make up her face. ‘It seems she was a fancy drugs mule.’
‘It’s that kind of business.’ Emma started applying some lipstick. She seemed to have aged ten years in barely ten seconds.
‘She wasn’t the only one.’
The girl stiffened slightly but kept her gaze firmly on the mirror. ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
She glanced up from her handiwork and gave him the briefest of smiles. ‘Very sure.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen,’ she said, without missing a beat.
Hooper crossed the room in one and a half paces. Taking the mirror from her hand, he tossed it onto the table. Bending down, he took her chin in his hand. ‘How old are you?’
‘Okay,’ she snapped, ‘so I’m only sixteen. But my parents know what I’m doing. They’re cool about me missing school.’
Bloody parents, Hooper thought, they don’t know shit. Happily, he himself was never going to bother with kids. ‘Stick to the truth,’ he advised quietly, ‘and we’ll be fine. What school do you go to?’
‘The Katherine Price School for Girls in Sevenoaks,’ she said, naming an upmarket commuter town in Kent.
‘Nice.’
‘It’s boring,’ she scoffed, placing the lipstick down next to the mirror.
‘Boring is good,’ Hooper told her. ‘Believe me.’
Emma stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray located by her feet, and immediately lit up another. ‘You go and live there, then.’
‘What can you tell me about Lottie’s drugs operation?’ he asked, standing up straight again.
‘There was no “operation”,’ she said. ‘Just Lottie and a few of the other girls making sure they had enough for their own needs and making a bit on the side as well.’
‘Did you ever try any?’
‘Once or twice, but it’s not really my thing.’ She waved the cigarette in front of her face. ‘This is more my kind of poison.’
‘So who else was involved?’
Emma gave him a dirty look before mentioning a few names that Hooper wasn’t interested in.
‘What about Rollo?’
‘Have you seen the size of him?’ Emma snorted. ‘That fat queen never did enough drugs!’
‘But did he deal?’
‘Rollo? Nah. He’s only ever been interested in a bit of recreational use.’
‘So who else was knocking around the business who might have been involved?’
Emma stamped her foot in frustration. ‘Come on!’ she whined. ‘I’ve been as helpful as I can. They’re waiting for me downstairs.’
Hooper glanced at his watch. ‘You’ve got plenty of time. I need a name.’
‘I haven’t got a bloody name!’ She glared up at him.
‘In that case,’ Hooper said, ‘things might just get a little complicated.’ Taking a small cellophane packet of grey-white powder out of his jacket pocket, he placed it on top of her make-up bag.
‘What’s that?’ she scowled.
‘Pure heroin.’ Hooper brought out his mobile and took three quick photographs. ‘Enough for me to take you in for questioning.’ Putting the phone back in his pocket, he scooped up the powder and waved it in front of her face. ‘Bye-bye modelling career, hello job at the checkout in the Sevenoaks branch of Waitrose.’
‘You couldn’t,’ Emma stammered, her bottom lip quivering.
This is just too easy, Hooper thought, as he took a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket. ‘Just give me a name.’
‘My dad’s a lawyer,’ she sobbed. ‘He won’t let you do this.’
‘If your dad’s so bloody smart,’ he hissed, pulling her to her feet, ‘why doesn’t he make sure that you go to school?’ Snapping on the cuffs, he gave her a gentle push towards the door. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Okay, okay! Take them off,’ she yelled. ‘I’ll give you a bloody name!’
‘See?’ he said. ‘How difficult was that?’
‘Just don’t tell Rollo. I want to be able to work with him again.’
‘No problem.’ Undoing the cuffs, he slipped them back in his pocket.
‘He’s good for my portfolio,’ she blubbed.
‘I bet.’
Rubbing her wrists as if she’d been shackled for a week, Emma muttered, ‘There’s a guy . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘They say he’s Rollo’s backer. He’s shown a lot of interest in Lottie over the last few months. One of his guys even asked me about her.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Dominic – Dominic Silver.’
‘Good,’ Hooper smiled. ‘Now go and do your tampon advert –or, God knows, the world might stop turning.’
She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Are we done?’
‘If I need anything else, I’ll be in touch.’
Outside the photographer’s studio, Sam Hooper took the small packet of rat poison from his jacket pocket and dropped it down a nearby drain. ‘Works every time,’ he said to himself, grinning. Walking on down the street, he wondered if he should have made the stupid little bitch give him a blow job. Maybe next time. Pulling up a number on his mobile, he hit the Call button.
A gruff voice answered on the fifth ring. ‘What do you need?’
‘Give me everything you’ve got on a guy called Dominic Silver,’ Hooper said. ‘The full works, and I need it ASAP.’
TWENTY-SIX
Less than an hour after her trip to the Foreign Office, Hilary Waxman was back in her office. The Israeli Embassy was located on Palace Green, less than five minutes’ walk from the house at 17 Peel Street where Ryan Go
ya had gone missing. As she headed down the corridor leading to her office, she decided she couldn’t wait any longer. Stopping under a picture of Golda Meir, she pulled a packet of Noblesse cigarettes from her bag. Back in the 1970s, when Waxman had been growing up, Meir – the fourth Prime Minister of Israel – had been seen as the personification of the true Zionist spirit: tough, austere and honest. Every now and again, Waxman liked to stand here, under her portrait, just to smoke a Noblesse and unburden herself. Checking that no one else was about, she looked up at the smiling granny in the portrait. ‘What would you do about this bloody mess?’ she asked.
Golda Meir, the Iron Lady of Israeli politics, once described as ‘the only man in the Cabinet’, decided to keep her own counsel.
‘I know,’ Waxman nodded sadly, ‘I know. There’s nothing to say, really.’ Pulling a cigarette from the packet, she stuck it in her mouth and lit up.
‘Aaahhh . . .’
The nicotine hit her bloodstream and Waxman felt herself relax ever so slightly.
‘Shit!’
Out of nowhere the reptilian military attaché, Sid Lieberman, had appeared at her side. He was a small man – five foot five – with a head that was too big for his body. Buff, tanned and with his skull shaved army-style, Lieberman could easily have passed for forty-five although he was, in fact, almost fifty-eight. Dressed in a cream suit, blue polo shirt and brown loafers, he looked more suitably attired for the sunshine of the South of France, or maybe Barcelona, than for the cold and grey climate of London.
‘Madam Ambassador.’ Lieberman tipped an imaginary hat. He was the only person in the building who couldn’t bring himself to call her Hilary. This was just one of the many ways in which he managed to annoy her.
‘Sid.’ Waxman tried for a smile, but couldn’t quite hack it. She knew that the current Mossad operation in London wouldn’t have gone ahead without some input from Lieberman, therefore she blamed him for the resulting fiasco. No shrinking violet herself, Waxman had no time for the spinelessness of her British hosts but, nevertheless, she believed that there were limits. Like not shooting down innocent people on London streets, for example. Men like Sid Lieberman and Ryan Goya not only crossed those limits regularly, they flipped the finger at anyone who tried to hold them to any kind of account. So, not only were they dangerous, they also destroyed any kind of moral authority that people like Waxman had spent their whole lives fighting for. She had hoped that this latest row would have seen Lieberman expelled from the country but, if anything, the British had appeared even more limp than usual. Waxman felt her heart sink at the thought. It was that kind of weakness which allowed people like Lieberman to flourish in the first place.
